


The Sky Sounds of Wings

by MapleleafCameo



Series: Fairy Tales [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Anal Sex, Curses, First Meetings, First Time, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome, Swans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 14:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2777042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Fairy Tale. Loosely based on The Six Swan Brothers with a dash of Rapunzel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sky Sounds of Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Here is a present for the lovely Ennui Enigma. Happy Birthday and welcome back to North America after your long sojourn to Cameroon:)
> 
> I kinda, sorta combined two fairy tales in this – it’s mostly based on The Six Swan Brothers by The Brothers Grimm – a favourite - & a sprinkle of Rapunzel. If you haven’t read The Six Swan Brothers you should or you can also watch a version of it in the remarkable adaptation by Jim Henson in The Storyteller series called The Three Ravens. If you have not seen this remarkable series and are at all interested in fairy tales, story telling or Jim Henson, this is a must. 
> 
> Thank you to my good friend mattsloved1 for looking this over. Any mistakes are mine.
> 
> I do not own, but there’s still time.

The afternoon sun threw the shadow of the tower in sharp relief upon the ground and slowly though the day, it marked the hours like an exceptionally large sundial. John stood at the tower window looking upward and not the earth below. He was waiting. He was listening to the sky. He was listening for the sound of wings. The pull was fierce and terrible, as fierce and terrible as any wish, longing to be made whole, to be complete. Soon it would be over and all would be as it should.

 

He scratched absently at his chest, an unrelenting itch only stopped by the end of day.

 

The window faced east so he couldn’t watch the sunset as it hovered near the edge of the horizon, but he could feel it. After being locked in the tower for six years, he could exact ever nuance and shift of light from the shape of the clouds and the stars as they travelled the night. He could read the rotation of the earth as it turned its back on the sun to say goodnight and when it paused, hovering, to pour over the horizon and kiss the dawn in greeting. All through the long days of his imprisonment he knew the dawn and while he rejoiced in the beauty of the morning he grew miserable at the thought of its return. The days were lonely, occupied by torment and pain. The nights were full of ache and desire.

 

It hadn’t always been that way. When he was first brought here, struggling against his captor’s bindings, bruised and bleeding, he had cursed and he had despaired. He would never see the light of a new day on his own terms. When he realized he was left alone every dawn, he began to bless the morning. The sunset was greeted with dread, for with the arrival of night, on strong, powerful wings, Sherlock would enter the room. Majestic, glowing in unholy beauty, he would appear, flying through the window and land upon the wool carpet, at John’s feet. His form shivered and stretched, he returned to the shape of a man, the spell lifted with the disappearance of the sun. Every night for six years, it was the same.

 

Sherlock came to him the first night and told him what must occur in order for him to win his freedom. They must come to this agreement or Sherlock would leave and John would waste his days in the tower with no human companionship, to die alone and unmourned. If he agreed, at the end of six years, he would be given his freedom and be richly rewarded. The days that followed that first conversation were dark and bitter. John had sunk into profound hopelessness. He tore at his clothes, he barely ate and would not speak to Sherlock when he returned. He would sit by the fire, staring at the flames, while Sherlock’s bright eyes would watch him, glittering in the shadows, not letting him go.

 

One night, several weeks after John had been brought to this place, Sherlock crouched down at the fire beside him. He was despondently staring into the flames. John had not eaten much and was thinner than when he had first arrived.

 

“This is foolishness. I require your assistance. You will not be harmed and you will be set free. Why despair?”

 

The anger that always simmered below the surface rose up and filled John. “Not be harmed? I am already. You have captured a wild thing and tried to tame it. I roamed the forests and streams, the mountains and moors to my own contentment. You would cage me and torment me. You want six years of my life. I did not agree to this.”

 

Sherlock was silent for a moment and then said. “Have you not thought that perhaps I do not do this of my free will? That I too am a caged and captured wild thing?”

 

A look of bewilderment passed over John’s face and in spite of his stubbornness he asked, “What do you mean?”

 

Sherlock looked at him for a long time, the firelight playing with the shadows on his face, so that one side was lit in angelic splendour and the other hidden in the hell of a demon.

 

“I cannot say more than this. I require your assistance. I need you to do this of your own volition. If I say more I will be doomed forever. Will you help me?”

 

In the soft timber of his voice was a humble plea. This, more than anything, moved John. He turned and stared into the fire for a time. He looked back at Sherlock. “You promise me? After six years you will let me go and never bother me again?”

 

John couldn’t be sure but he thought a shadow passed over Sherlock’s face, sad and forlorn. “I promise. Give me six years of your life and I will let you go. You will be rewarded beyond your dreams.”

 

John thought some more. “Why did you kidnap and imprison me? Why did you not just ask?”

 

Sherlock looked down at the floor. “I have asked far and wide. No one would help out of their own willingness. This seemed…expedient.”

 

John laughed, sharp and bitter. “Fine. I will do this. But I do it out of pity, nothing more. I do not care about the reward.” A sob rose in his throat.

 

Anger coated Sherlock’s voice, anger and disappointment. “I do not ask for pity, but if that is all you have to give so be it.” He swallowed whatever else he was going to say and turned his back to John, his arms crossed, stiff with rejection. “As soon as you swear your commitment you must not speak, laugh out loud or even hum or whistle.” He reached into the wooden chest that was at the foot of the enormous bed. A white shirt, soft and fine, was brought out. “You must wear this from morning to night, only removing it when you come to my bed. It is made of thistledown.”

 

It was tossed to John. As he caught it, he could feel that it was soft and silky but almost immediately where the shirt touched his fingers they began to itch and burn. His fingertips had turned red. “It will not be easy, John.” He turned back to face Sherlock and his eyes seem to soften for a moment. “You will sleep with me and I will bed you, but not until you choose. I cannot coerce you. It must be of your own free will.”

 

John laughed again. “For that to happen you will have to break me. Yes, I swear. I swear I will not utter a sound. I swear I will wear this shirt and I swear I will sleep in your bed.”

 

Sherlock said, “I accept your pledge.”

 

John wasn’t sure he felt any different, but the air seemed to shimmer between them. His eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak, but shut it just as quickly.

 

An eyebrow rose upon the proud and unearthly face. “It will not be easy,” he repeated and with that he turned and removed his clothing. He left it in a pile on the rug in front of the hearth. He walked across the room, stopped in front of John and said, “It is time for bed.”

 

John’s face flamed brightly, but he was never a coward, so he too shed his clothes and climbed into bed beside Sherlock, but he turned away from him and feigned sleep. He watched the flames of the fire slowly die. Even though he fought it, his eyes grew heavy and he was fast asleep.

 

He woke before the dawn, his slumber broken as he felt Sherlock climb out of bed. He sat up and watched the other man dress in the black clothes that had somehow been neatly folded in the night. They were not rumpled and looked cleaned and fresh. Sherlock watched him as he dressed himself, a sardonic grin on his face. “Part of the magic which surrounds me, I think. I must depart. There is food and drink and books to read. You need to eat, John. You must keep up your strength.”

 

Sherlock shuddered as the light crested the horizon. A brightness filled the air and the sweet smell of summer. Sherlock the man was gone. In his place a large black swan, neck curved and long. He climbed to the window and flew off. John wondered at that. He had thought swans required water to take off and land but then this was no ordinary swan.

 

His first day in the tower under the pledge was long, but John did eventually eat and he settled with a book he found upon the shelf. When Sherlock returned that night, he bowed in greeting. The two sat at the table to consume a simple meal of bread and cheese. Sherlock, at first quiet, thoughts turned inward, eventually began to tell John about his day, of the sights he had seen, the people he had watched. He was able to make distant lands seem close at hand with his vivid descriptions of ordinary folk. John felt less lonely whilst listening to Sherlock’s tales. At bedtime, Sherlock removed his clothing, left it in a pile and climbed into their bed. John also removed his clothes until all that was left was the thistledown shirt. He could not sigh out loud but it was a relief to remove the scratchy item. He glanced up to see Sherlock watching him, his eyes hooded. John glanced down at his chest. It was red and scratched where he had rubbed at it during the day. He assumed his back looked the same.

 

“I am sorry.”

 

John glanced up. A strange expression graced Sherlock’s face, arrogance to be sure, but perhaps tinged with guilt. “I am sorry for your discomfort, but it may please you to know it does help me with mine.”

 

John raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

 

Sherlock looked away. “I cannot say.” He turned his back and settled to sleep. With a shrug John climbed into bed and lay awake, listening to the changing breathing of the man beside him, watching the play of light and shadow on the wiry muscles in Sherlock’s long, pale back, strong from flying all day, until he fell asleep.

 

In the morning after Sherlock had gone and after he had eaten, he went to clean his face when he noticed a small glass bottle on the stand of the washbasin that had not been there before. He looked at it, frowning. At Sherlock’s next visit, he explained this was to sooth the rash, red and raw, on John’s skin.

 

As John wiped it over his chest, the respite was instant. He quickly smeared it over his shoulders and arms. He couldn’t reach the middle of his back and he was about to give up when he noticed Sherlock had his hand held out. “Let me,” he said. John blinked and then handed the bottle over. Sherlock tipped it up and poured the oily substance into his hand. He then spread it over the parts of John’s back that were still inflamed. His touch was deft and sure, gentle but firm.

 

Sherlock’s voice, near his ear, whispered, “You can only use this oil at night. You must not use it during the day, no matter how hard it is. Promise me John?”

 

John looked at Sherlock’s face with bewilderment but seeing the serious expression on his face he nodded.

 

And so it went.

 

Though he had promised and fully intended to keep his pledge, there were times he could not help but to search for a way out. It wore at him the way the shirt itched and tormented his skin. After endless and frustrating searches, he found no seam or crack to indicate where a door was hidden. The nails on his fingers were broken and torn from where he tried to scrap the mortar away, with no success. He never saw anyone else enter the tower. It didn’t mattered how hard he tried, at some point he always fell asleep and when he awoke there would be fresh food and water, enough for two men. Sometimes there were new books or writing materials, a cloak or extra blanket when the weather turned. Firewood was stacked neatly and a fire blazed with warmth and light. Tea supplies or an occasional flask of wine or good beer. The tower was luxuriously appointed with a large bed, velvet curtains and fine linen sheets. His clothes were pressed and washed or replaced with something new and the room tidied. The chamber pot was emptied and scoured.

 

Sometimes Sherlock did not return. There were intervals where he had to travel far distances due to the nature of the swan. Winter was often when this occurred and those nights would be long and lonely. It seemed then that the shirt itched more and he was often tempted to remove it or rub oil onto his skin, but he was a man of his word. He kept his promise and did not. In the heat of summer, he would sit alone in the tower, wearing little but the cursed shirt and it took all of his willpower not to cast it off and throw it out the tower window. He wondered, when he was alone, why he had taken up this task.

 

When he came back, Sherlock would describe the sights he had seen whilst flying high above the land, his swan eyes sharp and piercing. He painted pictures with words and told astounding stories of beautiful mountains and cold clear lakes. The sound of wild swans and the rush of wind in their wings filled John’s thoughts, but when Sherlock spoke of the people he saw, he had nothing but contempt for them. He would sneer at their lowly state or their stupidity.

 

“You are better off, to be hidden away in this tower, than to walk amongst these so called humans, in their ignorance and filth.”

 

On those nights, John would go to bed before Sherlock, his heart aching with sorrow and loneliness, wondering why he had given himself to this horrible beast.

 

One visit, Sherlock did not speak or entertain John, but he brooded, staring into the fire. He would not drink and he did not eat. John found himself concerned. He finally nudged him and held out a note asking him what was wrong.

 

Sherlock stared at the writing on the note. When he did look up at John, his eyes were bruised with pain and anger.

 

“I saw a sight today. A man had a wolf trapped in a cage. He had captured it and brought it into a town. The people there were poking it with sticks. The creature was half mad with pain. His paws were bloodied and torn where he had tried to claw his way out of the cage.” He stopped and he took John’s hand in his own and he gently touched the raw ends. His voice quieted to a whisper as he continued. “It reminded me of you. I have done wrong by you and I should let you go.” He looked into John’s eyes, “But I cannot say I wish to. I look forward every night to returning to you, to having you listen to me. You settle my stormy thoughts and ease my burden. I am a terrible person, for I want to keep you here, all to myself, but I fear I may slowly be killing you.”

 

A feeling of wonder filled John’s thoughts. Sherlock had never really shown regret for capturing John and had never seemed troubled. He had been solicitous and considerate to John but had acted like it was his right to keep him. It made him wonder if he had some influence upon Sherlock and if there was hope. He dared to ask the one question he had been able to, afraid of what it might mean. Carefully John took his hand back and wrote a short note. _‘Why me?’_ he asked, having pondered that question many times during his isolation.

 

Sherlock thought for a moment, his fingers played against his lips, and when he answered, he did not look at John but stared into the fire. “I saw you once, out hunting. You were right, when you said you were a wild thing, free and splendid. You roamed the mountains and streams and when you hunted it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, but you were never cruel and you were always swift to dispatch a wounded or injured beast. You never hunted for the sport of it,” He glanced up then and his eyes bore into John’s, “and you never hunted swans.”

 

Gradually John began to cease looking for a way to leave the tower and he decided to stop struggling. It wasn’t defeat so much as willingness to surrender to his fate. A calm descended and he felt all the anger drain out of him. Sherlock had changed from when he had taken him and John did not believe he was the same person. John also realized he had chosen to do this, under duress to be sure, but he decided to bear his imprisonment the way he bore the shirt and the silence. The next night he greeted Sherlock with a note. Puzzled, Sherlock read it and his eyes widened. He looked at John.

 

“Do you mean this?”

 

John nodded and he brushed a lock of hair from Sherlock’s forehead. A smile tugged at his lips and although it was tinged with sadness, his eyes were warm and kind. Sherlock stood and pulled John to him. They slept that night for the first time entwined although they did not yet know each other intimately.

 

The note, which had drifted to the floor from out of Sherlock’s hand, read:

 

_‘If I left now, I would not know how this story ends.’_

 

Then came a night when Sherlock told him of the things he had seen man do to man, crimes or harmful things that he could not prevent. As when he had spoken of the caged wolf, Sherlock grew thoughtful and quiet. John suggested in one of his notes that he could write anonymous messages and Sherlock could drop them off at the feet of whoever was in charge of that particular area. John would write out all of the details Sherlock had observed and then Sherlock could return with the information, telling people of the crimes, perhaps helping to catch the wrong doers. They might not be able to do anything but it would at least ease some of Sherlock’s guilt. A pleased smile lit John’s face as he thought about how much Sherlock had changed, to think of others now, to wish to help instead of harm.

 

Sherlock became very still. His eyes grew enormous and he leaned over and grabbed John’s face in his hands and said, “You are inspiring. Your kindness and light spreads to the dark corners of my mind and illuminates me. You are a warm glow in the night and I can clearly see the answers. You, John, are my grace,” and he stared deeply into John’s eyes. He blinked as he realized what he was doing and he started to pull back. Caught by surprise, John flushed at the praise, but the longer Sherlock stared at him the more he understood that he had come to admire and adore his captor and how confusing it was. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock soundly on the mouth. The loneliness and hunger for simple human contact consumed him. The feelings that had been hidden underneath rushed up and the simple kiss transformed into a current of overwhelming feelings, a riptide to pull him under and drown him. It was a sweet death to give into and he let it overwhelm him. Need flooded John’s senses and he kissed Sherlock passionately. His breathing quickened and he too raised his hands to touch. He sunk his fingers into the soft, dark curls. He almost groaned but remembered he could not voice his desire. He drew back and watched as Sherlock opened his eyes, which had closed when John first kissed him.

 

Sherlock’s eyes were dark with longing but he frowned and blushed. He looked at John and stroked his face. He opened his mouth to speak but John pulled him back into the kiss and silenced him. Sherlock parted his mouth and his tongue touched and tasted John’s. Still kissing Sherlock, John stood. Hands touched and caressed as he pulled him to his feet. He unlaced the dark leather shirt and pulled it over Sherlock’s head. With wonder in his eyes he traced his fingers lightly down the smooth pale chest, past his navel where a trail of dark hair grew. He watched his own fingers remove the lacing from the black leather breaches and pulled them down the impossibly long legs. Sherlock’s erection rose, flushed and full, the tip gleamed wetly in the light from the fire. John pulled his own shirt over his head and removed his breeches. The thistledown shirt quickly followed. It was Sherlock’s turn to touch John’s chest and he traced the scars left behind from the scratching and itching. John inhaled without sound as Sherlock’s fingers tickled his ribs. A furtive grin and Sherlock leaned in again to capture John’s mouth once more.

 

John pulled Sherlock to him and their skin touched, the want between them heated and burning. They moved to the bed and lay upon it, John on his back and Sherlock on his side, his fingers sweeping up and down. He leaned down and began kissing John’s eyes and mouth, travelled down his neck and chest, tongue swept over his nipples to his navel, down to his hip. He paused and lowered his head to the thatch of dark blond hair and drank in the earthy smell. John closed his eyes and concentrated furiously on not speaking as his member was suddenly engulfed in Sherlock’s mouth. His hand reached down to caress Sherlock’s head and sharply pulled on the hair when it became too much. Sherlock looked up with a wicked grin and licked his mouth. He reached over to the bedside table and took up the bottle of oil John used on his rash and poured some into his hand. He rubbed it on his fingertips and pulled one of John’s legs over his shoulder. He reached down and John’s eyes opened wide as his fingertip pressed upon the entrance.

  
“Is this all right? “Sherlock breathed, his voice full of dark longing. John nodded. A finger pressed harder and then slipped in, the movement of it as it went in was strange but filling. The finger was joined by another and then a third, but he almost spoke when they were withdrawn. He was left feeling bereft and empty.

 

Sherlock leaned in and kissed him. “Fly with me, John. Let me do this, let me take you as the swan takes his mate.” The words were whispered in his ear, low and hoarse. John could only nod and he rolled over to his knees. Sherlock wrapped one arm around and over John’s chest, drawing him close, his chest flush with John’s back. He could feel John’s heart beat like a wild thing as he lined up his member. Slowly, ever so slowly he entered into John, pulling him back and down.

 

John shuddered. There was a feeling of being stretched open but it didn’t hurt as much as he expected and Sherlock’s other arm came around and began to stroke, holding him safe and secure. As he rocked slowly into John, he began to kiss his neck and ears. John panted silently. He was close to coming and he bent his head forward trying to concentrate on lasting a little longer. Sherlock nipped down his neck and in the way the male swan grabbed its mate he bit down hard, near the base of John’s neck. John came in a rush, it felt like his mind left him and the earth swept away from him as he soared above, into the night, into the stars. He was held in the strong arms of his lover as they came back to the tower, to the hearth, to the bed and still rocking inside, Sherlock spent himself. They collapsed on the bed, his arms still wrapped tightly around John, holding him safe.

 

A weary chuckle escaped Sherlock’s mouth as he pulled his arms out from under him. He kissed and licked the bruise he had left on John’s neck and rolled him back so he could look down at him. Sherlock was surprised to see tears gathered in the corners of John’s eyes. He looked distressed and wiped them away. “I have hurt you. I am so sorry. Please forgive me.” He stopped when he saw John shake his head. John couldn’t speak, couldn’t say how full his heart was, could only respond by reaching up and pulling Sherlock down into a sweet, surrendering kiss. Using his lips and mouth to tell Sherlock without words how he felt, how much his heart was singing, how it was overflowing with love for this man who had not only taken his body but his heart and soul as well.

 

After, he drew Sherlock’s head onto his chest and their legs and bodies entangled, they fell asleep, nestled together.

 

John woke as Sherlock slipped out of bed and began to dress once more. He grinned and caught Sherlock’s hand, kissed his palm and fingers one by one. Sherlock leaned in for a last kiss before the dawn took him away.

 

The days were quiet and contemplative, smooth and a cool balm for John and the nights were heated and passionate, full of kisses and worship of each other, a different kind of healing. Over the years, Sherlock gradually told John what he could of his curse. He told that his father, the king, had been out hunting swans. A dark and beautiful woman came to him and asked him to sleep with her, but he had refused, for he had loved his wife, Sherlock’s mother, very much, even still, after she had died many years ago. She grew angry and cursed the king, telling him the next time he hunted swans he would hunt his own child. The king had hurried home and had been relieved to see Sherlock unharmed, but as evening fell, he had transformed into the swan for the first time. The king caused the tower to be built and had hidden Sherlock away in it afraid someone would kill him, thinking he was demon spawn. After many years of searching and asking the wisest men, a way to free his son was discovered, but none would accept the burden. When Sherlock spotted John, he chose him. It was decided he would have to be brought to the tower and forced to accept. In the dark, Sherlock said he now regretted the way John had been taken, but he could not be unhappy that they were as one. In the quiet of his heart, John silently agreed.

 

The six years went quickly, until there was only one more day and one more night.

 

John was sitting in a chair near the fire writing his thoughts down, trying to still his impatience to see the end of this last day, when a noise, like a large crashing sound, came from below. He put down the quill and raced to the tower window. He leaned out as far as he dared but there was nothing to be seen. The sound came again, but it was coming from the other side of the tower. Curious, John drew in his head. He wondered what was going on. Just as he was about to look out again to see if he could hear anything more, a door appeared near the fireplace, seemingly out of thin air. John could now tell where the seams were cleverly hidden. He backed up unsure of what this could mean.

 

The door was flung open and many men entered, some with weapons, followed by a figure in a blood red cloak. Beautiful and graceful hands came up and pulled back the hood. A young seeming woman, with long dark hair smiled coldly at John and swept her hand toward him.

 

“See? What did I tell you? Here he is. The man I spoke of. Hidden away here in this tower. Have you not watched these last few nights and seen for yourselves the swan as it enters the window and then leaves again in the morning? He is a witch and the swan is his familiar sent by the Devil. Who knows what evil they conspire to? Who knows what dark practices they do? Strip him and see if you can find marks upon his skin. See the scratches for yourselves of the unholy coupling of man and beast.”

 

John was grabbed and his clothes none too gently removed. The thistledown shirt was forcibly lifted up. The woman was triumphant as she showed the love bites on John’s skin and claimed the scratches from the shirt were from the claws of the swan as it copulated with him.

 

She grabbed John’s hair and painfully bent his head down. “See? Know you how a swan mates. This is proof. It holds his neck in its beak as it enters him.” She smiled at John as she yanked his head up and said, “Oh wickedness in the form of a man. What? Why do you not cry out? Did you sell your voice to the Devil to be granted dark powers? Beat him. Force him to yell and cry! Force him to confess to his wickedness.”

 

The men took John and punched and kick him, but he would not cry out, he made no sound. This seemed to infuriate them more and the blows that rained upon him became harsher. The thistledown shirt was pulled back down, for the lady claimed it had evil powers and to be left upon him. There intent was made clear as she told them to drag John out of the tower and burn him at the stake for witchcraft. They hauled him down the hidden staircase and out onto the tower grounds.

 

He was bruised and bloodied and although he spoke not a word in his defence nor cried out in pain, in his heart, he called, “Sherlock, Sherlock! Fly! Fly far away from here.”

 

Night was drawing near as the sun began to set in the west and John was afraid of what would happen if Sherlock returned. He would be captured and they would both die.

 

It took time to assemble bundles of wood and to hoist a stake. John was roughly shoved up to it and coarse rope was tied around his hands and then around his body.

 

A smaller fire was started close at hand, but before the pyre was lit, the lady held her hand and said. “Let me speak to the prisoner one last time. If he recants Satan and confesses his crimes, perhaps we will be merciful and slit his throat before the flames consume him.” She climbed up to where John was tied, balancing carefully on the stack of wood.

 

She leaned in and whispered. “Oh, you poor fool. What you do not know is I am the witch. It is I who cursed your beloved. His father would not lie with me, so I cursed his son until he could find one who would love him, one who would sacrifice all for him. You gave up your voice, you gave up your freedom, you wore the shirt of thistledown. Do you know why? He was in great pain during the day, even as he flew and you took his pain and transmuted it for him by the wearing of that shirt. Poor little fool. Now you will die, and he will stay cursed forever and his father shall weep for the loss of his son. There is still one more night left and not even you can stay silent as the flames burn you. To have come so far and to lose it all,” she laughed, but quietly so only John could hear.

 

She climbed back down and turned to the men gathered there. “He has refused to speak and will not recant. We must start the fire and hope it kills him before darkness falls. His powers will be stronger then and his beast will return with the night. Hurry.”

 

A torch was lit from the smaller fire and the wood was lit. As it caught, the sun slipped behind the horizon and there came a flurry of wings as a large black swan swept to the ground in front of the pyre. The last light from the sun slipped away and the swan transformed into Sherlock. He kept his back to John as he turned to the men standing there.

 

“Idiots! It is I, your Prince, who has been ensorcelled all these years. That man there is a good man. He has given everything to save me.” He pointed at the dark haired women. “There is the culprit. She is the witch who cursed me. Seize her.”

 

The men, recognizing the Prince, for he had the look of his father and realizing their mistake, hurried after the witch. She was caught and tied, whilst Sherlock hurriedly freed John and pulled him from the fire. He laid him on the ground and cupped his face. “John? John? Shh, don’t speak. There is still this night. Nod if you are all right.”

 

John looked up at his love and nodded before slipping away into the dark of his thoughts and dreams.

 

When he awoke again he was in a sumptuous bed in a large room. The sun was shining through the widows and a light breeze blew in. He looked around bemused, trying to remember what had happened and how he had come to be here. He was dressed in fine bedclothes and there was no sign of the dreaded thistledown shirt. He moved but pain rushed up from where he had been struck. His ribs and back hurt and his feet were tender and sore. As he moved them he remembered being in the fire and all that had transpired. He threw back the covers and looked at his bandaged feet.

A voice from across the room said. “You will be fine in a few days. You escaped being badly burned. You were just singed a bit.”

 

John turned, astonishment on his face. Standing by the doorway was Sherlock, dressed in something other than the dark leathers he usually wore. A pale linen shirt with a green over shirt, brown leather leggings showed off his trim legs.

 

Sherlock looked downcast, his face sorrowful. “You will be well pleased to know the curse is broken. I am in your debt. I do not know how I can repay you.” He looked up and John was surprised to see tears in the grey eyes. “I am sorry, John, for all the harm I have caused you. I am sure, once you are healed, you will wish to be on your way. I only came to say thank you.” He turned to go. John, his voice having not been used for so long, was unable to call out to him and he was afraid Sherlock would just leave before he could show him how much he meant to him. He slipped out of bed, but as his bandaged feet touched the ground, he cried out and a rusty whimper croaked from his throat.

 

Sherlock spun and seeing John collapsed beside the bed, rushed to his side.

 

“John! What are you doing! You must stay in bed. You are hurt!” He started to help him up, but John grabbed his shirt and once again showed him with mouth and kisses everything he meant to him. Sherlock groaned and slipped to the floor beside him. John laughed and said in a hoarse whisper, “I love you, you fool. You have forgotten that swans mate for life. You cannot be rid of me so easily, as I have given you my heart and you have given me, yours. I have loved you since our first kiss. I loved you as you sat beside the fireside and told me of your day. I loved you for your sorrow at my scratches and torment of the thistledown shirt. I forgive you for all that I bore because it brought me to you. Now kiss me, Sherlock, kiss me for the rest of our lives.”

 

Sherlock did. He leaned in and kissed John with great passion and great promise.

And they lived together happily and forever.


End file.
